


all the roads lead to you (70s in spirit)

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Gen, Pre-Slash, TV News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: Oh my god, they were newscasters.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton & Ronald Speirs, pre-Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs if you squint
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix 2020





	all the roads lead to you (70s in spirit)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for the ha rolling remix. there’s like waaaaay more backstory behind it but you can only do so much in 3K you feel me? 
> 
> lyrics from ldr's “the next great american record" off norman fucking rockwell bc it's honestly a gift. ty cece for the beta.

**KDKA Channel 2 – CBS Pittsburgh, 1974**

Carwood takes a moment in the hallway outside Mr. Winters’ office to collect himself. One of his sleeves is falling down from the neat roll he tucked them both into earlier, hunched over his typewriter, spitting smoke like a steam train while he worked his way through a pack of Winstons and put the finishing touches on a script about President Nixon’s return from his peace tour of the Middle East. He adjusts his cuff, then reaches up to smooth his hair.

He knocks on the door with two knuckles and cracks it just enough to stick his head through. “You asked to see me, sir?”

Winters is behind his desk, frowning down at a pile of what look to be expense reports. “Ah, Lip!” he says, brightening up. “Yeah, come on in. Just, uh,” he lifts the papers and shuffles them to the side with a smirk, “balancing the books. Please, have a seat.”

He gestures at the chairs in front of his desk and Carwood takes the one on the right. He straightens his tie and smiles, waiting.

Winters drums his fingers against the cushioned topper lining his desk and says, “I wanted to talk to you about the anchor position.”

Carwood’s stomach lurches. “Yes, sir?”

To his credit, Winters doesn’t sugarcoat it. He looks Carwood straight in the eye and explains, “We’ve decided to hire from outside the station.”

Carwood doesn’t flinch, though his fingers twitch where they’re resting against his knees. He looks down at the scrubby brown carpeting and swallows to coat his dry mouth. “I see,” he croaks. “Uh, thank you. For telling me.” He looks back up to find Winters studying him, sober and intent.

“I wanted to make sure that you understood this decision was not a reflection of you or your skill. You tested well with viewing audiences during the segment we aired last week and you nailed the interviews.”

Carwood braces himself for the ‘but’ while Winters shifts in his seat, and sure enough, a moment later—

“But we had an opportunity to poach an experienced anchor from another local station and it was too good a deal to pass up.”

“Do you mind if I ask who, sir?”

Winters watches him for a second and then inclines his head and replies, “Ron Speirs, from WNAC out of Boston. You know him?”

“No sir.”

Winters raises his eyebrows, like he’s surprised by this, and says, “Huh.” He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over his knee. “Well, he’s made something of a name for himself up there. Even had a couple of national networks sniffing around last year, if rumor is to be believed.”

“They pass him up?” Carwood asks, curious despite the obvious answer.

Winters thinks about it for a second and then hedges, “Speirs has a reputation for taking on some pretty...intense investigative work. The sort of stuff a national network might consider too costly a liability.” He smirks again. “Kind of reminds me of you actually.”

 _Not enough to give me the job,_ Carwood doesn’t say, just snorts and ducks his head, fighting a bitter smile. 

Winters either doesn’t notice this lapse of character or does Carwood the favor of ignoring it as he goes on, “We’re giving you a dedicated field segment and you’re first in line for consideration if a new slot opens up behind the desk. Until then, you’re the best writer we’ve got on staff and I need you to keep doing what you do, alright?”

“Of course, sir,” Carwood says. “Thank you for your consideration.” 

Winters nods and Carwood takes it for the dismissal that it is. 

Carwood doesn’t say anything, but word gets around. Most of the guys offer him condolences and Luz and Guarnere take him out that night in the interest of drowning his sorrows. Carwood isn’t much for drinking to excess, but he appreciates the sentiment. He surprises himself by having a good time despite the fact that he ends the evening pouring both his buddies into a cab while they rail about the unfairness of it all and then stepping back inside to take care of the bar tab they’d racked up in his honor.

Speirs starts on a Monday, and while part of Carwood would like to slink into the office an hour late to spare himself the pain of watching an unknown quantity step into the role he was hoping to claim for his own, he can’t bring himself to embrace that kind of lapse in his professional standards. He stands at the back of the room while Mr. Winters enters the studio, trailed by Mr. Nixon—a nominal producer with considerable financial stakes in the station, who can hardly be bothered to come in unless Winters lures him with the promise of quality booze or a spectacle of sufficient caliber—and a brown-haired man of middling height in a sharp grey suit.

“Morning, all,” Winters greets. There’s an unintelligible rumble of response from around the room. Winters waves it down with a hand and then sweeps the gesture around to indicate the man standing next to him. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to the newest member of the team here at KDKA. Let’s give a warm Pittsburgh welcome to our new anchor, Mr. Ron Speirs.”

Speirs raises a hand, flashing a close-mouthed smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes while a scatter of applause ricochets through the assemblage. “Happy to be here,” he says. He has a nice voice—hardly surprising, given his vocation of choice—to match his neat haircut and camera-ready features, handsome and inoffensive from his tidy coif down to the spit-polished gleam of his wingtips.

“As you all know,” Winters continues, “he’ll be replacing Norman Dike behind the desk.” At the mention of Dike’s name, a chorus of heartfelt booing swells toward the ceiling. Carwood cups a hand around the side of his mouth and adds his voice to the rising din. Winters does his best to maintain his usual aura of professional austerity, but he loses it for a second when Nixon meets his eye around Speirs’ back and tips the flask he keeps in the inside pocket of his suit with a broad grin.

“Alright,” Winters hollers, reaching out to swat a reprimand against Nixon’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough!”

“I can see I’ve got some big shoes to fill,” Speirs offers, and most everybody laughs. _Charming,_ Carwood thinks, _gregarious._ The perfect temperament for a successful news anchor.

Almost as if he’s somehow heard Carwood’s thoughts, Speirs’ pale gaze finds his eye through the crowd, drawn like a beacon. Carwood’s gut twists, cheeks heating, and he tears his eyes away to frown down at the floor. He takes a few steps toward the door, but Luz catches his elbow before he can get very far.

“Hot date?” He wags his eyebrows and Carwood musters a grin.

“Oh yeah,” he nods, shaking free of Luz’s grasp. “Got a little lady named IBM Selectric waiting on me as we speak.”

“Pfft,” Luz huffs, “deadlines.” He rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose, waving a hand in the air as if he can disperse the sentiment like so much smoke. “Get outta here with those.”

Carwood shrugs and backs away, toward the hallway that leads to the bullpen. This time, Luz lets him go.

Speirs comes strolling into the bullpen a few hours later, on the heels of one of the interns—Guarnere’s little redheaded friend with the funny nickname, who’s in stitches about something Speirs just said. They circle around to the center aisle, clearly intent on making introductions amongst the writing staff. Carwood excuses himself to the breakroom for a fresh cup of coffee while the pair hovers at Joe Toye’s desk.

A few of the boys are already there, whiling away their break clustered around the industrial coffee pot with their heads bent together, trading gossip like fishwives.

Skip Muck glances up and nods at Carwood over Malarkey’s shoulder. “What’s the good word there, Lip?”

“Boys.” Carwood nods back, tilting his chin toward the steaming carafe between them. “Can I get in on that?”

They wave him into their little huddle, Penkala going so far as to lean up and fish a clean mug out of the overhead cabinet.

“You meet the new guy yet?” he asks, handing it over.

“Haven’t had the pleasure, no.” Carwood takes his time, stirring a few packets of sugar into his coffee with a wooden swizzle stick.

“Heard he served in ‘Nam,” Penkala offers, as though a shared history of jungle warfare—which Carwood prefers not to think about, if he can help it, as the memories tend to make the scar on his cheek tingle and itch—ought to appeal in some way. “Got back just in time to cover the Pentagon Papers.”

"Everyone covered the Pentagon Papers," Lip observes, giving his coffee such a vigorous stir that a little of it slops over the side of the mug onto the counter. He swears under his breath and tears a paper towel off the roll next to the sink. 

"Yeah but his segment went national," Penkala replies.

"Who the hell told you that?" Malarkey asks with a frown. 

Penkala shrugs, shoulders sticking up near his ears, and protests into his coffee, "It's on his reel, Gonorrhea said."

“I’m more interested in what he got up to while he was deployed,” Skip says, fishing a pack of Newports out of his shirt pocket. He ducks his head to light one, heaving a deep drag and then gesturing with the cigarette clutched between his fingers. “I heard he was so hot for the Viet Cong he cut down this entire village. Women, kids, the works.” He raises the cigarette to his mouth and sucks at the filter, shaking his head and sighing, “No mercy,” through a minty stream of smoke.

“What?” Penkala blanches. “For real?”

“Bullshit,” More offers at the same time. He’s been quiet so far, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, half a stale doughnut in hand. Now, he brandishes it with authority, fixing Skip with a gimlet eye. “That’s just Luz running his mouth, like usual. Gotta be. No way Winters hires a guy like that.”

Malarkey looks likewise unconvinced.

Skip holds his hands up. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

More scoffs around a mouthful of doughnut, “Well, _I_ heard he was on-site at some hotel fire a couple years back? And the guy _ran inside_ ‘cause he heard a kid crying in the lobby or something.”

“I saw that!” Malarkey agrees. “The footage went national for like a week. It was insane. I think the city gave him some kind of medal or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Skip mutters, rolling his eyes. He reaches up to buff his knuckles against Carwood’s shoulder. “What do you think, Lip? Is Speirs a war criminal or is he some kind of hometown hero?”

“I think it’s none of my damn business.” Carwood sips his coffee. He wags a finger under Skip’s chin. “And I think you oughta know better than to quote a source without verifying it first.”

Skip brings an affronted hand up to his chest, grinning in good humor while the other guys laugh and whistle and holler, joyfully taking the piss. Carwood pauses on the threshold of the doorway for a minute, glancing around until he clocks Speirs and Heffron on the other side of the room, disappearing into the hall. Satisfied that he’s slipped under their radar, makes his exit and head backs to his desk.

Carwood spends the next week and a half busying himself outside the office, scaring up sources and running down leads for that street segment Winters promised him. He has a hot tip on a series of robberies in Perry South that he thinks will make the perfect opening story. That his research allows him to duck Speirs’ notice a little while longer is simply an added bonus. Carwood knows he’s being childish, but he doesn’t want the first impression his new colleague gets of him to be while the bitter loss of his promotion is stuck in his craw.

It helps that Speirs’ schedule is packed, too—between learning the ropes at a new station and long hours of recording, there’s not much time left over for socializing. Not that this stops Speirs from getting together with some of the guys a couple times a week to hit happy hour at the White Eagle.

Thus far Carwood has been spared the event, conveniently on his way to dinner with an undisclosed—and usually imaginary—party or begging off with deadlines anytime he’s offered an invitation. His luck fails him on a Thursday, when Speirs himself appears in front of Carwood’s desk just after the clock has gone eleven. The bullpen is largely empty, half the guys gone to take advantage of a $2 pitcher special and the other half in a post-production review.

“Carwood Lipton,” Speirs says, apropos of nothing, startling Carwood so much he nearly knocks a mug of cold coffee over with his flailing elbow.

“Jesus Christ!” Carwood breathes. He reaches to move the mug to a safer distance, fingers shaking, and glares up at Speirs, jaw clenched. “Can I help you?”

Speirs is even more handsome up-close, jaw shaded this late in the day, hazel eyes flinty despite the amiable wrinkles at the corners. “You’re a difficult man to pin down.”

Carwood is in no mood for a pissing match this late in the evening, so he looks back down at the sheet of paper curling up out of the center slot of his typewriter and says, “I’m sure your shadow box looks just fine without me.”

Speirs snorts, which is another—much more pleasant—surprise. Carwood glances up again to find Speirs smirking down at him.

“Nobody told me you were funny.”

Carwood shrugs. “Must be an acquired taste.” He doesn’t ask what the guys _have_ been saying about him. Even if he trusts them not to divulge anything too embarrassing, he’s probably better off not knowing.

Speirs doesn’t seem inclined to share in any case. He leans forward, hands resting on Carwood’s desk and narrows his eyes. “You don’t like me.”

Carwood sighs through his nose and licks his lips. “Look, I - ”

Speirs cuts him off with a raised hand and a swift shake of his head. “No,” he says, straightening up, “it’s alright. I heard about the promotion, and - ” He stops and shakes his head again, but this is a smaller gesture, angled inward. “You’re under no obligation to like me, but the men in this studio, they respect you. They hold you in incredibly high regard and I would be doing a disservice to them—and to you—if I didn’t at least _try_ to change your mind.” He tugs at the lapels of his jacket, neatening its sleek lines, and nods. “I came to ask you for the opportunity.”

“How do you plan on doing that, exactly?” Carwood asks, before he can help himself.

“Well,” Speirs says, licking his lips. His mouth looks soft, which is a dangerous thought to have about any man but especially about a much-lauded coworker. Carwood blinks and forces himself to focus, hoping he’s not flushing too much, as Speirs continues, “I’m told you don’t drink much, so I thought we might start with dinner? My treat.”

Carwood considers for a second. He can feel the jagged edge of the chip he’s been carrying around starting to buff soft under the anxious twitch of Speirs’ fingers, the bright glint of his eyes over the hopeful curve of his smile.

“I could do dinner,” he agrees. A tension he hadn’t noticed sloughs off of Speirs’ shoulders. Carwood holds up a finger. “On one condition.”

Speirs blinks, eyes wide and catching so much light they almost look blue. “Name it.”

“We go Dutch on the bill.”

Speirs snorts again, smirking and ducking. “See?” he says, smug, looking up again and pointing a knowing finger at Carwood. “Funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“I hope you like Chinese,” Speirs says. He turns on his heel and strides toward the hall. “There’s a great 24-hour place on Brookline. Wontons to die for.” He pauses when he realizes that Carwood isn’t following and turns, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Carwood narrows his eyes and tries to fight down a grin with little success. “You’re used to having your way, aren’t you?”

Speirs flashes him that winning, on-camera smile, eyes dancing. “I prefer to think of it as embracing my leadership potential.”

“Uh-huh,” Carwood nods, rolling his chair back and slinging his jacket over his arm. He knows the restaurant Speirs is talking about. Tong Garden, twenty-four hour Chinese buffet. The wontons _are_ good, but more relevant to Carwood’s interest is the fact that he’s eaten there often enough to be on a first-name basis with the hostess, Lisa.

Carwood thinks of the look that will be on Speirs’ face when he swipes the bill out from under him, falls into step at Speirs’ shoulder, and smiles.

“After you.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tattered Memorials and Solace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593989) by [Zippit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zippit/pseuds/Zippit)




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